


Leather, Spikes, and Orange Tutus

by Sophie_skates_reads



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alexei Androvich needs to die, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Both types of them, CATS the musical, First Performances, First Time, Happy Birthday Yuri Plisetsky, Interpret that as literally as you will, Kinda, Long-Haired Yuri Plisetsky, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Nikolai is an omniscient god, Post-Canon, SERVER LORE, Superfan made me do it, The Rum Tum Tugger - Freeform, Yuri Plisetsky Loves Cats, Yuri was an adorable kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29789862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie_skates_reads/pseuds/Sophie_skates_reads
Summary: Thank you to the Superfan Discord server who essentially planned this entire fic! The Otayuri chat has never been the same! No promises for how cohesive this is, but I crammed in every HC mentioned in the discussion, so pat yourselves on the back for inspiring this insanity!Love to you guys. ♥
Relationships: (mentioned) - Relationship, Mila Babicheva & Yuri Plisetsky, Mila Babicheva/Sara Crispino, Nikolai Plisetsky & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, Victor Nikiforov & Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 21
Kudos: 38





	Leather, Spikes, and Orange Tutus

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the Superfan Discord server who essentially planned this entire fic! The Otayuri chat has never been the same! No promises for how cohesive this is, but I crammed in every HC mentioned in the discussion, so pat yourselves on the back for inspiring this insanity!   
> Love to you guys. ♥

The beginning of the end, as Yuri came to think of it, came in the April of 2019. 

The end of what, specifically, you ask? Nothing big. Nothing important. Nothing earth-shatteringly impactful. Only the end of Yuri’s sanity, his good reputation, his self-respect. And, frankly, the fact he had any left to lose after three years of The Wonder Couple was something worth celebrating in and of itself. Which was why, he supposed idly, in a desperate attempt to console himself, people had made such a huge deal out of these losses. 

Still, though, he thought miserably, it would've been wonderful if it could’ve happened _after_ he’d confessed to Otabek. Yeah, that would’ve been nice.

***

At first, Yuri was wary. It was only fair. After having borne witness to the two Hasetsu ice shows of the past and the results of Katsuki’s friend’s ice show that the idiot allowed Victor to help produce, anyone sane would be at least _mildly_ cautious when invited to participate in the third Katsuki-Nikiforov production. See, the ice shows done by this pair of goons were not _normal_ ice shows; they were not the tame, star-packed, slightly lackluster ice shows of the sport. No. They were full of big names boasting bigger medal lists, yes. They were slightly lackluster, in Yuri’s opinion, yes. But were they tame? _Hell fucking no._

They had _themes._

The first? Predictably: _love._ Yuri had done _Agape,_ and was only bullied into it because Grandpa’s car had needed repairs and his back a surgery. And Yuri had missed Yuuko and her horde of demons, but that was entirely beside the point.

The second, also predictably: _new beginnings._ Yes, Katsuki, we got it, you were reaching for the stars now, not letting your anxiety control you, taking hold of life and kicking it in the balls until it bent to your will, blah blah blah, whatever. Marriages and the magic dick of Victor Nikiforov were fairly standard topics in the skating world, so, regardless of what the fans thought (a pack of wild hyenas, the lot of them), this hadn’t exactly made a splash.

The third ice show-that-was-technically-the-first-and-Katsuki’s-friend’s had been slightly more interesting. They wore hamster hats in a giant stadium that looked like it was trying to be a pastel, knockoff onion dome. And failing. 

Yuri had never said the third was _better._

But now, now came the fourth, and the fourth was a lot to handle-- even for Yuri, with his considerable-by-now tolerance for idyllic bullshit. 

See, Victor had just retired for the second time. And instead of fading into oblivion to never be seen or heard from again, like a good little Russian star, the prick had decided to do a farewell ice show. 

The man had done more farewell shows than Bono and it _really_ seemed more prudent -- even to Yuri, with his apparent “lack of common sense” -- to actually stay _off_ the ice when one retired, but _whatever._

Now, Yuri, upon hearing about this, hadn’t wanted to touch it with a nine-and-a-half foot pole. But Yuri, hopelessly whipped as he was, had not anticipated being fucking _double-teamed._ And, really, how was it fair that the old man had gone to _Otabek_ to broach the idea first? Knowing that Yuri would agree to fucking _anything_ when lost in those warm, brown eyes? Fucking bastard.

“It really does seem like a cute idea, Yura,” Otabek said over video call, four days after Tweedle Dumb had first had the idea. How he’d moved so quickly, Yuri would never know; did he not grasp the idea of _planning?_ That was probably what Katsuki was for, he conceded. “I don’t know why you’re so against it.”

Yuri leveled him with a flat look. “It’s _Victor,”_ he deadpanned. “If it came from his demented, cotton-candy brain, it’s automatically beneath me.” He paused, eyeing the screen suspiciously, “Beneath _you,_ too.” He continued, eyes narrowing. “ Why are you defending it?”

Otabek, frozen and guilty, swallowed. “I like the idea.” He shrugged in an excellent attempt at nonchalant.

“No,” Yuri gasped, horrified, betrayed, _livid,_ “Beka, you didn’t.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” He wouldn’t look into the camera.

“Beka, _no,_ please tell me you didn’t do this.”

“Yura, I don’t see why this evokes such a strong reaction in you,” a bluff if Yuri had ever heard one, defensive and making it seem like _Yuri_ was the crazy one here. Oh no. 

“It’s _Victor!”_

“It’s only five weeks!”

Yuri let out a strangled sob, smacking his head onto his desk and moaning for emphasis. “Bekaaaaaaa, why have you done this? Why would you _possibly_ think this is a good idea?”

“How do you know I’ve done something?”

Yuri glared into the laptop camera. He saw a red mark from the spiral binding of his notebook imprinted on his forehead. “Otabek,” he stated, “Otabek Umiduly Altin. Do not lie to me. I know when you lie. Did you or did you _not_ sign up for Victor’s stupid fucking memorial ice show?”

And that was how Yuri got roped into the whole ridiculous charade.

***

The theme was _first times,_ go figure. Yuri would have asked Victor if he could get any more literal, but, _sadly,_ he knew that it was far, _far_ from his and Katsuki’s first time. And Yuri was trying to get a boyfriend, with whom he would (hopefully) be intimate; he didn’t need to be more scarred by the explosive sex life of the Katsuki-Nikiforovs than he already had been. 

So he held his tongue, carefully dodged any and all innuendos aimed at him, and tried to remember the first performance he’d ever given on the ice. Because, to ensure skating fans all over didn’t eviscerate him for the less than PG-13 theme, Victor had made into a prompt for all of the participating skaters to rework their very first skates. 

Like _very_ first. 

Yuri would’ve liked to say he couldn’t remember his. But, sadly, fate and Grandpa had something to say about that.

***

“Yura,” he barged in one day in June, right in the middle of Yuri’s _scheduled, goddammit,_ video call with Beka, and paid no mind to Otabek on the screen, simply shuffling Yuri aside on the bed and plonking a dusty photo album down onto the comforter. Yuri coughed. Beka raised one eyebrow. 

“Um,” Yuri said, making wide, pleading eyes at Grandpa because _he had something very important to talk to Otabek about, could this wait?_

It could not, it transpired, because Grandpa either had no sympathy for Yuri’s predicament, took pleasure in his helpless romantic floundering, or simply lacked the ability to interpret desperate eye signals.

“Hello, Otabek,” said Grandpa, realizing after several seconds of pointed looks to and from the laptop screen that he and Yuri were not alone in the room.

“Hi, Nikolai,” Otabek said, because he was an insufferable bastard and loved Yuri’s grandpa almost as much as Yuri did. Ass. “What’s that?”

“Photos of Yuratchka’s first performance,” Nikolai sat down on the bed and flipped open the album. Intrigued, Yuri sat up, scooting a little farther over to allow his grandfather to settle more comfortably and to open the album wider. He’d forgotten what his first performance was -- probably some stuffy, classical piece he would whine about adapting -- but he was eager to see the photos of it. 

And sure enough, as Grandpa found the page, Yuri saw himself: short, six, fluffy blond hair frizzing crazily around his face; captured in through time standing on the ice, several equally short, six, fluffy-haired children in costumes around him.

And then his heart dropped.

Because it was not _hair_ around his small, slightly-ruddy face. The quality of the picture was awful; it was old, faded, and was taken on a cheap, shitty camera, so the photo, while showing the insanity that was Yuri’s headdress and the rest of his costume, did not convey the _color_ of said headdress. 

Which was orange.

Neon orange.

A neon orange tutu, to be exact.

On Yuri’s head.

_Fuck._

“It was the final show for Madame Ivanova’s Skating Camp,” Grandpa said, helpfully, as though Yuri were not having a mental breakdown at the very _sight_ of the monstrosity he now remembered skating in. “Each child skated to their favorite song, and you chose--”

“Grandpa,” Yuri hissed, eyes wild and desperate, all too aware of Otabek, on the computer, waiting on tenterhooks to find out what this mystery program was. “I remember, there’s no need to--”

But Nikolai had recently never been very good at interpreting Yuri’s please-shut-the-fuck-up eyes, or maybe this was a newfound oblivion inspired by the cruel, sadistic nature of grandfathers everywhere. Because he kept going, and not _only_ did he continue to explain this horrid, tragic tale, but he held up the photobook to the laptop camera so Otabek could see the _evidence._

“You skated to ‘The Rum Tum Tugger’ from _Cats,”_ Grandpa said, “it was your favorite musical, do you remember?”

“No,” said Yuri softly, hollowly, in absolute horror.

“Yes,” Grandpa nodded, evidently under the impression that he was imparting great wisdom and not murdering Yuri’s love life with the efficacy of a precisely placed skate blade. “You used to dance around to the music all day long. You made me play the record for you over and over again until you knew the words by heart.”

Otabek’s face was far too flat. Fuck.

“You even got Madame Ivanova to adapt the choreography for ‘Rum Tum Tugger’ so you could do it on ice for the show,” Grandpa chuckled, “it’s no wonder you have such a liking for leather and metal spikes now-- you were practically in love with The Rum Tum Tugger when you were a child.” 

Actually, he _was_ in love with the Rum Tum Tugger as a child, but who was asking?

“Anyway,” Grandpa allowed, moving the photo album back from the laptop just in time for Yuri to see Otabek pocketing his phone hurriedly. _The bastard._ “I won’t intrude on your call any longer, but I just wanted to let you know that I used my _email,”_ he still sounded so proud of himself when Yuri had taught him how to do that over two months ago, “to send the photos to Vitya so he can get a head start on the choreography and the costume.”

Had Yuri mentioned that one of the perceived draws of the _Memorialmortal fucking embarrassment_ to do so.

Grandpa got up, picked up the photo album, and shuffled across the threadbare rug. “Bye, Otabek,” he called as he disappeared from the camera’s view.

A muffled “bye!” resonated from the laptop’s tinny speakers. 

“Have fun, you two, I know you have a lot to talk about.” Yuri went rigid, even as he tried to persuade himself that Grandpa could mean anything, right? Right. But the stupid old codger continued moving, stopped at the door, waved goodbye before closing it-- and winked. 

The motherfucker _winked._

Yuri didn’t think he'd ever been more terrified in his life. He didn’t think he’d ever been more _confused_ in his life, his mind tearing itself apart like a muppet on crack as it tried to figure out whether he should’ve been more embarrassed because _that just happened_ or more disturbed because _Grandpa fucking **knew.**_

And then he remembered the issue at hand, and slowly, ever so slowly, twisted his head back so it faced his computer screen, Otabek’s perfectly blank face pictured on it.

For several seconds, there was silence. Complete, utter, absolute, hear-a-pin-drop silence. And then Otabek started laughing. 

Mother _fucker._

***

“One question,” Otabek sprang it on him several months later. They were in Las Vegas for Skate America, and, by now, with literal _months_ having passed since Yuri’s initial outing as a _Cats_ fan, Yuri had been lulled into a false sense of security. He should’ve expected it. Katsudon had crashed and burned and then almost crushed him at the GPF in the space of a year, after all-- he should’ve seen this coming. 

But, like an idiot, he _didn’t._

“Hm?” Yuri glanced up from his phone. They were at dinner, cozily ensconced in a table for two, Otabek’s arm wrapped loosely around him because they'd dragged their chairs to the same side of the table like the sickeningly cute couple they were. _That was right, fuckers, **couple.** Ha- **ha.**_

“Isn’t there, like, a giant orgy scene in the middle of _Cats?”_

Yuri paused, glanced up from his screen, took a second to realize what Otabek was talking about. Oh. That. That one scene where the cats-- he was about to correct him, about to kindly inform him that, _no, Beka, you fucking perv, that was **not** an orgy,_ when it hit him.

His eyes widened. His mouth dropped open. His phone clattered onto the table. _Oh. Oh, fucking God!_

Otabek, regarding Yuri’s expression, snorted. “Hadn’t made that connection?” He guessed, far too amused in the midst of Yuri’s existential crisis.

_“I was **seven!”** _Yuri screeched, _“I didn’t understand!”_

And this, this moment of horrible, gruesome realization, was just one of the many, _many_ ways in which his life had gone downhill since the stupid fucking ice show was introduced into it.

And he had been going to try to get Otabek to fuck him tonight, too. Dammit.

***

It was December and, upon pain of _death,_ Victor had promised not to tell anyone except his disgusting other about the “Rum Tum Tugger” performance. It may only have been because Yuri had excellent (or, conversely, _terrible)_ timing, and had walked in on Victor doing _unspeakable_ things to said disgusting other, and his silence had come at a price, but whatever, he had gotten what he’d wanted.

Only, his plan to perform the “Queen of the Night” aria, his _second_ (and _vastly_ different) skate in the ice show, was derailed when Alexei _fucking_ Androvich caught wind of Yuri’s participation in the _Memorial_ show and decided to give the audience a “sneak peak” at what was in store for them.

It turned out, as Yuri realized upon waking up next to Beka, _(finally),_ the morning after the Grand Prix Final, to a storm of Twitter notifications, that Alexei Androvich had been one of the students in Madame Ivanova’s Skating Academy. And, despite the fact that Yuri had _absolutely no recollection_ of him, he _certainly_ remembered Yuri. More than that, he remembered Yuri’s first performance. More than _that,_ his family must’ve been better off than Yuri’s (just another reason to hate him on Yuri’s rapidly growing list) because he had a _recording_ of it.

A recording, the full four minutes and fifteen seconds long, surprisingly good quality, that ended up on Twitter.

Alexei Androvich was going to _die._

***

And that’s how Yuri’s “Queen of the Night” was destroyed, and Victor’s dream (perhaps inherited from Georgi) to dress him in the most garish, gaudy mess of cat print the world had ever seen, was actualized. And, coming from _Yuri,_ that was saying something.

But it got worse, oh no, it got worse. Because it was not _enough_ for the initial "Omg, guys, I trained with @TheRealYuriP when I was six! He was so good even then!" tweet to be number one on the Twitter trending charts for a whole week.

No. Not when the Angels, rabid beasts that they were, had caught, quiet, barely intelligible on the shaky audio of the recording, a _second_ voice singing “The Rum Tum Tugger.” And _then,_ because they had _nothing better to do with their lives,_ the Angels had somehow enhanced the second voice enough for it to be identifiable, if young and squeaky and _so very off-key,_ as Yuri’s.

Yuri was at his annual (biweekly) salon appointment with Mila when he saw it. They were in their normal chairs, their normal foot specialists hard at work making the monstrosities they skated on marginally less horrific to the human eye, when the video entered Yuri’s line of sight. 

Or, more accurately, _was shoved in his face_ accompanied by Mila’s singsong “Yuraaaaa, you never told me you could singgg!”. He couldn’t sing, that was _painfully_ clear, but the correction never got across anyway.

After a solid seven minutes of screaming, at which his pedicurist didn’t even flinch, another three of cursing the Angels, God, and _Alexei fucking Androvich_ to hell and back, Yuri calmed down enough to slump in his chair, miserable, and moan, “This is why I don’t have friends.”

“You do have friends, though.” Mila hardly looked up from her new, very very _short,_ manicure. It was May, and Sara was doing the ice show, too, and _fucking God,_ Yuri hadn’t thought it could get worse than Victor and Katsudon. Evidently, Mila had made it her personal mission to break his spirit.

“Yeah,” Yuri grunted, shrugging sullenly, “but I had to get rid of all the old ones first. Fucking _Alexei Androvich,”_ he sneered, “the little bitch was always a terrible skater.”

“I thought you don’t remember him?” Mila quipped, ensuring with a meticulous and _wholly unnecessary_ care that the edges of her nails were perfectly rounded, nothing sharp in sight.

“I just _know.”_ Yuri said darkly. 

She looked up, tilted her head, shrugged, and went back to her nails.

Needless to say, the next conversation topic was no more pleasant for Yuri than the first.

***

It was June, and a matter of days before the ice show premiered. Which was wonderful because that meant that Otabek was there, but awful, because that meant that _Yuri would have to perform that fucking skate._

It was the final costume fitting, and Yuri moaned as he examined himself in the mirror for the umpteenth time. Victor had very clearly drawn inspiration for this from the original costume-- in fact, the resemblance between the two was so big, that Yuri would almost have believed it if Victor had told him he’d taken the parts from six-year-old Yuri’s costume and made them larger so nineteen-year-old Yuri could wear them. 

Almost, only because the headdress, just as hideous as the first had been, was attached to the bodysuit properly, and was not just a hand-me-down orange tutu Madame Ivanova had affixed to Yuri’s hair with bobby pins. The rest, though, Yuri was dispirited to say, was spot on.

There was the black bodysuit, tacky orange and brown fur aligned in a deep V down the chest. There was the belt, large buckled, blue jean, and _woefully_ mismatched with the thin, sparkly, _spiky_ one Rum Tum Tugger wore. There were the boots, which were, kindly, not the hot pink skate covers the originals had been, but cheetah print orange ones, which at least went with the vibe better. And then, the finishing touch, the one part that, above all else, Victor had recreated perfectly. 

The _tail._

Yuri didn’t need to say more.

He did, however, need to moan miserably in the dressing room, still not resigned to the travesty of his fate even after having known about it for over a month.

“I’m going to _kill_ Victor,” Yuri whined, pulling jerkily at a tuft of orange fur hanging over his eyes and pouting when it achieved nothing but making his fingers itch.

“You had plenty of time to stop this,” Otabek replied, unmoved, from the mirror opposite, where he made the final check of his costume.

_First of all,_ all the knowing in the world couldn’t have helped Yuri come to terms with _this._ And second, even if he had been able to deviate so egregiously from the original copy of his costume, he had been in no position to bargain. 

The only reason Yuri hadn’t put up (more of) a fight upon seeing Victor’s version of the program was, sadly, because Victor, too, possessed the ability to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, and, instead of walking in on wild, frisky sex, he walked in on a ring. And, when you had only been dating for six months, a ring was something you _really_ wanted to keep quiet.

It wasn’t like Yuri intended to use it, okay? It was just that he’d been walking past a jewelry store in France and it had caught his eye and it had been perfect and they had been offering a deal on engravings and he was only nineteen, okay? Marriage was the last thing on his mind. (It would be in Kazakhstan, in Otabek’s family home’s backyard, and they would ride horses into the sunset because Otabek loved horses and that was how they had had their first kiss, a very poorly timed stumbling off a horse right into a pair of warm, soft lips.)

But yeah, Victor, the vindictive little bitch, had named the price of his silence at a program and a costume with no complaints. And, well, even though Yuri was so sure of his future that he’d elope right now (with horses), it really would have been a bit of a problem if his boyfriend was less so.

The boyfriend who, turning in the mirror, pursed his lips at his costume once more.

In terms of design, it was _far_ better than Yuri’s, but that wasn’t exactly hard to do, seeing as a _peacock_ was more stylish than Yuri’s current mismash of garments. Otabek was adorned in a simple, blue bodysuit, the tights _tight_ (Yuri had choked on his own saliva when he’d first seen them, then quickly found something better to choke on instead) and the shoulders covered in rhinestones, arranged in glittery swoops and swirls so the design gave the impression of a particularly iridescent vest.

It was a far cry from The Hero of Kazakhstan’s normal look, but it suited him (then again, Yuri was privately certain that a singular _sock_ would suit him-- especially if it was worn in an abnormal place) and worked for the part. 

“At least you’re not doing ‘Swan Lake.’” Otabek groaned, pulling at his costume fruitlessly. It figured, seeing as Otabek’s style was so unusual for figure skating, that his first piece had been a classic, ballet-heavy one, something he’d lost no time in commiserating about once he realized that fact. 

It was worsened, too, by the fact that the Otabek of eight was _far_ more flexible than the Otabek of 22. Yuri, as competitive as they came, couldn’t help but feel sorry for Otabek while they practiced; the man looked like he wanted to scoop Victor’s eyeballs out and eat them like grapes. Privately, Yuri thought Victor agreed with that judgement, and that that is the reason the pair hadn’t had the one-on-one rehearsals Victor and the other skaters did.

“I’d take ‘Swan Lake’ over this shit,” Yuri shot back, accustomed to this banter. They’d been throwing remarks like this back and forth at each other for months, and they could’ve reversed places and kept up the script seamlessly. 

That didn’t stop Yuri from glowering when he heard Otabek sing, softly, taunting and perfect and under his breath the way it always was, a verse of “Memory.”

You got walked in on having a _Cats_ shower concert _one time,_ and suddenly it was a thing. God.

“Touch me,” Otabek hummed, unfairly beautifully, as he began to disrobe. “It’s so easy to leave me…”

Yuri scowled, but moved to escape the fuzzy confines of his costume, too.

And, as usual, the only way to shut Otabek up was to help him peel his bodysuit off and forcibly stop the formation of words by slamming his mouth onto his.

It could’ve been worse, Yuri decided, when they were done thoroughly defiling the changing room.

***

It was closing night for the ice show, and Yuri was off the ice, tugging at the stupid, fluffy contraption that inevitably transformed his hair into a veritable, frizzy rat’s nest every time he put it on. Even if it was only for a _second._ Yuri didn’t think it was fair.

Life wasn’t always fair, though, and sometimes things didn’t work out in your favor. Like when you accidentally left the ring you accidentally brought to the rink at the top of your makeup bag where your boyfriend accidentally found it when looking for a darker shade of eyeshadow because he accidentally dropped his own.

But sometimes they did. Like when your boyfriend took the ring and ambushed you thirty seconds before you were both due on the ice, giving you a heart attack while you stuttered your way through desperate explanations, only to kneel and propose with your very own ring.

Needless to say, they missed their cue.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in two fucking hours with a forty-minute break for dinner in between. I edited this once to fix the tense-shifts, but there has been literally no revising, so as for quality? Who knows. Is it written in English? Is it written in Sophie-brain? Is it in any way cohesive? THERE ARE NEVER ANY GUARANTEES WITH ME. Lol.
> 
> Scream at me and the beautiful birthday boy in the comment section! If you liked this, comments and kudos are beloved! ♥


End file.
